


Consequences Of Time

by themetaphornextdoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biting, M/M, POV Second Person, Smut, Top!Castiel, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetaphornextdoor/pseuds/themetaphornextdoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clothes are disappearing and you could spare more attention to how, but you don't really care - you've been like two dark clouds, colliding in a maelstrom of self destruction, for so long. You're caught in the middle of it now, you've thrown yourself willingly into the storm. It was only a matter of time."<br/>Dean/Cas, NC-17, Angst, PWP. 1,964 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Slash, sex, major angst, minor and brief biting.  
> Spoilers: S4.1 - Basically, if you know who Castiel is, you're fine.  
> This is the first time I've written in present tense, and also in SECOND person (which is beyond weird, I know), and I found it surprisingly hard! But I liked the mood it created for this piece, so I kept at it. Seriously, this nearly sent me mad – I think I might just over analyze everything… But, anyway, if you find any tense errors, please let me know and I'll fix them up.

  
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It's as though a wild wind had blown through the room, disrupting the dust filled air and thick atmosphere. You have no idea how you got from the wall to the bed, but it's of little consequence now.

All you can see is blue and rose pink.

Eyes and lips.

They cloud your vision and you hang onto them like you're drowning, because you just might. A strong, straight nose. A powerful jaw, square and sharp, with a shadow of stubble. His chin has the slightest cleft – a dip seemingly made just for your tongue. There's nothing else in your line of sight but these, framed by a shock of dark, messed hair.

So you feel.

Long slender hands, rougher than you'd imagined. They press and stroke; they defy, claim and mark. Touches that hold both questions and answers. Both warmth and ice.

Clothes are disappearing and you could spare more attention to how, but you don't really care - you've been like two dark clouds, colliding in a maelstrom of self destruction, for so long. You're caught in the middle of it now, you've thrown yourself willingly into the storm. At it's mercy.

It was only a matter of time.

You feel his coarse hair against yours at your groin. It's such a contrast to the smooth, un-scarred skin of his torso that it seems almost apt: are there any two more opposite than you? You can smell the sweat from where you bury your face in his neck. Taste the salt on your tongue. It's familiar. Human. But his body caries a warmth that seems unnatural and it sears when you press your chest to his, longing to get closer, as though you could crawl inside him.

You both align, hardened lengths framed by sweaty fingers grabbing and pressing greedily into hips and buttocks. And then there's rhythm.

Finally.

Blessed friction that alights your spine and rides it's way into your soul, burning, devouring. Destroying and bringing salvation all at once. It's blinding in it's intensity, and suddenly you can't see. Or maybe you've closed your eyes, you can't be sure anymore.

Then, perhaps, it's his eyes that have closed and it's cast you adrift - and you're only blind for fear of looking up into dark, fluttering eyelashes instead of the blue gaze that has held you upright for so long.

You rock into each other hard. Your breath pants out against his throat, while his paints your forehead in rapid, humid strokes. It's carnal, base and lustful. Filthy in it humanness. Ridiculous in it's grasp on you both, your desperation. It's almost shameful… this sliding, undulating, thrusting madness that is consuming you.

And yet, it's more than that. More physical than you'd ever dared to consciously hope for, more trusting than you deserve, more intimate than the act appears. There's far more connection between you than your bodies would seem to allow - and far, far less than you both know you need.

Blue eyes.

You can see again and you search them, trying to find him there, but you see only your reflection. There's so little blue left now, so much black pupil. Lusting. Glazed. Or perhaps they're tears… Are they his or yours?

It doesn't matter.

You're shifting, and he lifts you. A small burst of pain. A quick snap, painful and sharp, before it's gone and only an aching burn remains. He's inside you, he's pushing further, sliding into your discomfort as though he was made to live there and it's too much. It's too much and not enough and neither of you can speak. There's only the tunnel of hot breath between two open mouths. The eye of the hurricane that rages around you. His lips are red and swollen, his hairline dark with sweat-damp hair. It's not him, not the one that you see every day, have known all this time. He looks nothing like the man above you now. His face flushed pink, eyes hooded and dark from need, eyebrows drawn as though he feels every spark and surge of pleasure as pain instead.

Maybe he does.

He fills you so intimately, solid and hard inside you. And it's insane how right it feels to your mind, and how wonderful certain parts of your body seem to think it is. Twitching and leaking like they have a right to over rule the discomfort and the alien-feeling intrusion. The sheer contradiction of it all is close to impossible, and you have no idea how you haven't simply imploded yet.

He's throbbing, and you can feel every vein, every ridge, every swell of him inside you. It's salacious. The rub and weight of his length against your inner walls, coarse hairs against your cheeks and trembling fingertips digging bruises into your flesh. It's completely criminal in how good it feels. And there's something purely divine in it's stretch and burn.

And then there's rhythm.

He's rocking. It's stilted at first, halting and picking up again to slide deeper still. More unspoken questions voiced only by uncertain hips, slim but firm against yours. You wonder suddenly if everything would be different if you'd let your bodies do the talking from the beginning. You're not sure how you manage to stifle the laugh that threatens to bubble up at the cliche.

Maybe it's because his teeth suddenly find the tender flesh of your bottom lip, digging into the softness. Bites far from gentle, keeping time with his movements. Teeth that don't let go, tightening and relaxing rhythmically with each thrust as his strong hands now find the backs of your thighs and push, opening you further.

It's a sweet angle, and a rush of fire stabs into every fibre of your being. A rush of bliss that warms and expands with every pounding intrusion of his hard length inside you. Every cell of your body lights up in response. You think you should be saying something, but there simply isn't room. There's no room for anything but you and him, joined and filled. Pleasure, elation, and this pulsing pain that's nothing but joy.

His hips are suddenly sharp, and fast – snapping, demanding - asking more and more. He always asks. You never know what else to do but give. To tell him 'yes' with your eyes, with your rising body. You squeeze tight around him and his eyes fly shut, and the rhythm falls into chaos. There's only feelings. There's only bodies. Nothing in between and nothing beyond.

And in this moment, for this second, he's as human as you are.

As you savour it, drinking it in like the salty beads of sweat that fall from his top lip onto your tongue, it occurs to you.

At this point, you're not giving anymore.

You're taking.

With little warning the air is stolen from your lungs. Your climax sparks inside you, lifts your body without consent and seed spills - hot and viscous - against your stomach. Your voice find itself again; desperate, hoarse sounds ripped unwilling from your throat.

The room shifts, the ceiling tilts forward somehow. Blue eyes withdraw just an inch to roll skyward. His fingers are bruising, digging hard into the bone of your hip, and it hurts. His other hand clutches at the back of your neck, squeezing, clutching, frantic for purchase, for some sort of grounding against the sensations that you know must feel like falling to him.

His breath disappears and just seconds after your release, he follows. His pelvis stills to fill you with pulsing wet heat; a guttural shout emanates from somewhere near your shoulder, and you feel it like a tremor passing through his skin into yours where your chests are crushed together.

Somewhere between the throbbing tension, the spasms and trembling, between the push and pull of blinding light and consuming dark – you can only wonder how either of you haven't flown apart yet. Shattered. Broken into a million pieces by reality. By the very contradiction of your souls on the same planet at the same time. Even having never met, you should have cancelled each other out, like an impossible equation. Like fire and water.

But you do. You did. As if some fanciful higher power pulled your strings in their world of wishful thinking and then lost interest. Left to play somewhere else.

How long could you have circled each other before your combined gravity drew you both in? Falling. Screaming pleasures and trading touches to replace the pain. Destroying each other as surely as you had been destroying yourselves.

It was only a matter of time.

He's collapsed against you. Hot and wet, a rising-falling-rising chest that still presses flat against you. Stars and sparks that refuse to leave your vision - optic fireworks as you struggle to regain your own breath.

Sparks like some other time, long ago. You remember. Small bursts of fire falling from the ceiling of an abandoned barn. Black and gray walls, and a fear like you've never known in your waking life.

You can scarcely believe it's the same creature now. The one that lies above you, barely conscious. Still panting ragged breaths against your neck as he slips out of you, wet and softening. His exhausted weight almost crushes your lungs.

The creature that turned into a man. For you. A man that sees you and knows the man you used to be; the creature you've become.

You're more than sinful; it's more than wrong. But it's of little consequence now.

A low grade fever seems to settle in your bones as you come down from the high. His full lips remain lax against your shoulder, warm and moist. A barely there, almost unconscious flick of tongue every other second. Sweat drying makes his skin clammy where your hands still clutch at his waist and sharp shoulder blade; damp hair presses against your ear.

You feel like you've survived a tsunami. A tidal wave of intensity that threw itself at you without warning, swept you away and left you drained and awed. The power thrumming through your veins recedes to a bone weary ache that is more pleasant than uncomfortable. You feel every inch of skin that connects you – tiny hairs and goose bumps, firm muscle beneath soft skin, a rapid but slowing pulse that mirrors your own.

The room comes back to life, into focus again, slowly. The air is thick once more and scratches against your skin like sandpaper. You feel raw and exposed. Wishing you could go back to hiding under him, with him, in him. You wish he could suck the air back out of the room and rewind the last ninety minutes of your life forever and never emerge. Stay lost in that blue, that pink, that dark, sweaty pain and impossible pleasure.

He's gone and in desperation you reach and scrabble, breath quickening pathetically in panic. Your fingers tangle in a handful of damp, black hair and shake until his head rises slightly and blue eyes blink open to find you again.

A sigh of relief. You were grasping, drowning again, but he's here.

He's still here.

There are no words. Nothing to be said. No sounds even, and none have disturbed the air of the room bar those two hoarse shouts minutes ago, the sharp, obscene slap of colliding flesh and the static of shifting bodies.

No words, because you both know. You both see it.

His blue is your lifeline, your rescue, as surely as he clutches at your green like he needs anchoring. Like he could suddenly float away and be lost forever.

But it's an illusion. Of course. You're both still drowning. The truth is plain in what you're becoming, as the worlds you both built slowly crumble.

It's only a matter of time.


End file.
